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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569846">virga</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs'>zipegs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Hannibal Lecter, Season/Series 01, Sleepwalking, Someone Help Will Graham, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, but make it manipulative, dark/disturbing throughts, hints of pre-relationship if you squint, i mean it /is/ hannibal pov, pretentious internal dialogue</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:47:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26569846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/pseuds/zipegs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something intoxicating about seeing Will like this. Voyeuristic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham &amp; Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Darkest Night 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>virga</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGVR/gifts">ScarletSleeper (MGVR)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Re-dated for author reveals!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will Graham is on the verge of coming unmoored.</p><p>Hannibal can scent it on him, like a storm about to break. An ozonic spark of promise—the sweet smell of rain that comes when clouds hang thick and swollen above the earth, preparing to release their spoils on those below.</p><p>He may have taken it upon himself to puncture the lining of Will’s sanity—to worry an already-thinning barrier until it gave—but what spills forth will be of Will’s own making. Prompted by Hannibal’s fingers, and molded by Hannibal’s hands, but he did not summon clay from nothing.</p><p>Even Michelangelo needed marble in order to set the angel inside it free.</p><p>Will is close, now—approaching the precipice of his Becoming. And when he is ready, Hannibal will put the final pieces into play. Cut the last of Will’s anchors and set him somewhere dark and safe to mature, like firing clay.</p><p>But it would not do to be impetuous.</p><p>Though no one is there to see him—or, perhaps, because of it—Hannibal’s mouth tugs up at the corners, lips quirking into a smile as he gazes down at his book. When he turns the page, the paper whispers against itself, and the soft scents of lignin and benzaldehyde curl up into the air, disrupting the motel room’s somewhat stale, musty odor. This habitation falls short of his standards, with its poorly cleaned carpet and heavy, tasteless drapes, but compromises must be made. Consulting for the FBI and being granted such close observation of Will Graham’s empathy are gifts worth the inconvenience—Hannibal will gladly suffer coarse accommodations in exchange for the chance to glide between the law’s grasping fingers and witness a remarkable mind at work.</p><p>So, too, does this sacrifice afford him a closer perspective on that mind’s unraveling.</p><p>Thus far, Will has managed to clutch the threads of sanity to him, but only barely. Hannibal can see the effort it has taken—the foreign glaze in his eye, as though his mind has been possessed by another, the sweat gathering beneath his collar and under his arms, the trembling of his hands as he fumbles for his plastic bottle of aspirin. A veritable Greek drama, with foreshadowing so thick it threatens to smother all that lies below it.</p><p>But subtlety is, at times, inadvisable. There must be suitable evidence of Will’s deterioration if Hannibal intends for those closest to him to fall prey to doubt. A clear build-up of action, so that the climax does not arrive <em>ex machina.</em></p><p>Hannibal would have liked to spend some time with Will tonight—to hear him recount once more this new killer they seek, less harried and more poetic than he had been at the scene of the crime—but he knows the merits of surrender. Upon their return to the motel, Will’s demeanor was sour and troubled, and none of Hannibal’s coaxing penetrated his durable shell.</p><p>It is no matter; they have tomorrow. Should that fail, there is always their next session back in Baltimore. There will be ample opportunity to witness violence as painted upon the fabric of Will’s mind.</p><p>As he is considering, the door to the room beside his own—Will’s room—opens. The noise is jarring, and the thin walls vibrate with the motion.</p><p>Hannibal pauses in his reading, glancing up from the page to stare at the front wall and the window’s drawn curtains. His head cocks, curiosity rising like cream to the surface of his consciousness, and after a moment’s deliberation, he sets his book aside and reaches for his coat.</p><p>Will’s door has not yet closed, he notes with interest, as he shrugs on the coat and tucks his room key into his pocket. There are many possible reasons why that might be; Hannibal tempers his eagerness as he glances at his wristwatch, pausing just shy of the door.</p><p>12:37 AM. From what he has gathered of Will’s sleeping habits, he should have retired several hours ago. A night terror has woken him, perhaps, or he is suffering from a bout of insomnia.</p><p>Another moment passes. When no other sound emerges—no knock upon his door, no slam of any other—Hannibal schools his expression into something bland, pulls open the door, and steps out into the night.</p><p>He spies Will immediately, barefoot and clothed in naught but a sweat-stained t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. He’s facing away from the motel, wandering slowly but steadily across the parking lot. Hannibal’s brow raises at the sight, and he cannot deny his flash of pleasure—sleepwalking, then. He had been hoping to witness such an act but had not been so optimistic as to expect it here, tonight.</p><p>He glances toward Will’s room. It is entirely dark; the door gapes open like a wound, illuminated only by the exterior building lights, which cast their small halo just over the threshold. He slides his gaze further down the row, but no one appears to be stirring; the other agents and various travelers have likely retired for the night.</p><p>He returns his attention to Will, who has continued in his deliberate progress like a glacier carving its way through a valley. It’s breathtaking to witness—the manifestation of a troubled psyche, unsteadiness made flesh—and a poetic juxtaposition of fire and frost: Will, his mind aflame, drenched in sweat though his feet are mottled with cold. Hannibal follows him, drawing carefully nearer without rousing him from his current state—not an incredibly difficult feat to accomplish, but one that requires attention nonetheless. Like stalking an ignorant animal whose skittishness has been externally suppressed.</p><p>Closer, now.</p><p>There are goosebumps on Will’s arms, and the hair at the nape of his neck is stringy with sweat that has solidified in the cold. Despite the winter chill, he smells hot. Sweet and astringent and feverish—a fragrance that brings to mind citrus rinds and chili oil and yet is impossible to encapsulate. Hannibal closes his eyes and inhales deeply, letting the scent of Will’s illness wash over his palate and seep into the back of his throat. It has thickened since first he recognized it, grown hazy and opaque. Mature. Like well-aged cheese or wine.</p><p>The analogy brings a subtle smile to his lips. He opens his eyes.</p><p>Will has stilled and stands nearly motionless at the edge of the pavement, just shy of the road. His hands are twitching at his sides—small, jerky movements of the wrist—but the rest of his body remains stagnant, gazing blindly out into the darkness.</p><p>Hannibal comes to stand beside him, clasping his hands in front of himself and leaning forward as he examines Will more closely. His eyes are glassy, pupils dilated. Mouth slack and hanging open. A sheen of sweat covers his skin, catching the light from the streetlamps and gleaming coldly against the dark backdrop of night.</p><p>There is something intoxicating about seeing Will like this. Voyeuristic.</p><p>Hannibal considers the numerous times he has induced in him a similarly disconnected state. Equally intriguing, yet there is something so <em>natural</em> about their current situation. Something pure about watching Will’s mind work against him, responding to cues Hannibal no longer has to initiate. There is no further need to pull Will’s defenses apart; his mind is prying itself open, now, so that Hannibal may slip inside.</p><p>He has a fleeting urge to reach out and touch Will—to feel the peaks of his goosebumps and the clammy chill of his skin—but he does not. Instead, he drags his gaze heavily over Will’s face, brow furrowing slightly as he catalogs every place he would like his fingers to land.</p><p><em>What do you see? </em>he wonders silently, watching Will’s breath cloud before his face. <em>What violent thoughts possess your restless mind?</em></p><p>Will makes no sound, no motion save that of his hands.</p><p>Another impulse swells within Hannibal, and this time, he indulges it. Slowly, he runs the backs of his fingers down Will’s arm, stroking over damp skin. <em>All the perfumes of Arabia, dear Will, will not sweeten that little hand. </em>His mouth curls, lips tugging higher as his knuckles brush Will’s wrist. Such strength in his arms. They are capable of great and terrible acts; Hannibal has only to prove it to him.</p><p>A dry, rumbling sound grows in the distance. Two headlights flash into existence from around a bend in the road, blindingly yellow compared to the low glow of the streetlamps and the dull, distant stars. Hannibal’s gaze snaps to the car as it drives past, bathing both him and Will in a short-lived pool of illumination.</p><p>Will tenses.</p><p>Hannibal can feel the muscles beneath his knuckles contract and cease their spasming. He looks away from the vehicle to regard Will and turns his hand so that his fingers encircle Will’s wrist.</p><p>The car fades into the distance. Will raises his hands and frowns, finding the movement of his right arm obstructed, and Hannibal tightens his grip. Slowly, as though emerging from a fog, Will turns his head to look down at the point of contact between them, and then follows it up to Hannibal’s face. He blinks, face scrunching with confusion.</p><p>“Dr. Lecter?”</p><p>Hannibal puts an arm around Will’s shoulders, molding his expression into one of concern. “You were sleepwalking,” he says, ushering Will gently back across the parking lot and toward the motel.</p><p>Will’s movements are less fluid now, and his body has begun to shiver, trembling between Hannibal’s arms like a frightened animal. He folds his arms across his chest, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, and hunches in on himself.</p><p>“It is”—Hannibal looks at his watch—“12:48 AM. You are in Newcastle, Wyoming. Your name is Will Graham.”</p><p>Will exhales shakily, face contorting with emotion—fear, most likely, and confusion. He makes for his open door, but Hannibal tightens his hold and only lingers long enough to close it before leading Will away, toward his own room.</p><p>“I’d prefer if you would indulge me,” he says, and Will does not protest. When they draw near enough, he unlocks his door and holds it open for Will, who steps through obediently and drops heavily onto the foot of one of the double beds. He leans his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands and scrubbing roughly at his skin while Hannibal retrieves the spare blanket from the closet. It smells vaguely of mildew, and the fleece has long since begun to pill, but he wraps it around Will’s shoulders all the same and glances with evident displeasure down at his bare purple feet.</p><p>“It’s fortuitous that your room is directly adjacent to mine,” he says, sparing Will’s feet and legs one last look before busying himself with adjusting the thermostat in the corner. “Hate to think how long you would have stood out in the cold had I not heard you stir.”</p><p>No concern on Hannibal’s part is to thank for Will’s return to wakefulness—had the car not passed by, he would have allowed him to remain in the clutches of sleep far longer—but he evades that particular truth. While his back is to Will, he indulges in a brief twitch of his lips, and smooths his expression before turning around again.</p><p>“How do you feel?”</p><p>Will is wrapped loosely in the blanket, swathed in the less-than-pristine white fabric like a sinner clinging to the tatters of holiness. He is still shivering, and the muscles in his neck are held taut. It takes him a moment to answer, and he does so without turning his head; instead, he stares resolutely at the mauve wallpaper, eyes bright with nascent fever.</p><p>“Like I just woke up in the middle of a parking lot,” he bites out. He ducks his chin toward his chest, mouth wobbling.</p><p>Hannibal makes a sympathetic face but does not respond, allowing expectation to fill the room around them like a noxious gas.</p><p>After a long moment, Will sighs. “I feel—heavy,” he admits. The blanket pulls around him as he tightens his grip. “Waterlogged. Like I’ve been treading water for years, and now I’m forced to step foot on land.”</p><p>Hannibal tilts his head. He doesn’t hum, but it’s a near thing. Will’s words fresco the walls of his mind, and he luxuriates in the image for a moment before crossing to the battered dresser. Upon it, a bottle of whiskey and two rocks glasses stand proudly, out of place in their elegance. He screws the cap off the bottle and pours several fingers into each.</p><p>“The strain and duress of what you do have weighed you down,” he says, watching the amber liquid splash into the glass. “Like stones collected in the depths of your pockets. If you are not careful, Will, they will drag you under.” He passes him one of the glasses and raises his brow in punctuation.</p><p>Will frowns, but he accepts the offering, staring into the glass for a long moment before downing half of it in a single swallow.</p><p>Hannibal’s mouth tightens, but he makes no comment.</p><p>“I’m concerned about you,” he says instead, bringing his own glass just beneath his nose and inhaling its sharp, peaty aroma. “You were so certain that a physical ailment was to blame.” He crosses to the small table on the side of the room and turns out the wooden chair so that it faces the bed where Will currently sits, then sets his whiskey down and unbuttons his suit jacket before lowering himself gracefully onto it. Once he is seated, he crosses his legs and folds his hands atop his lap, peering intently at Will with furrowed brows. “You must accept that the issue remains. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of.”</p><p>Will has freed his hands from the blanket; he clutches his whiskey between them like it is salvation itself, fingers moving distractedly over the glass. A self-soothing gesture; it’s a habit toward which he is predisposed. That is a good sign—Will is uncomfortable.</p><p>An object must first be broken in order to let something in.</p><p><em>The wound is the place where light enters you</em>.</p><p>“I’m not—” Will cuts himself off, blinking rapidly, and valiantly succeeds at holding back his tears. From the face he makes, Hannibal imagines they lie thick and ardent in the back of his throat, eager to escape. “I’m not <em>sick</em>. I’m just—confused. This job is bad for me. I’ve said that before.”</p><p>Hannibal tilts his head. His lips pull down in a subtle frown. “Of course it is,” he agrees, tone gentle. Placating. “You feel everything so deeply that it becomes a part of you.” He pauses. “A beleaguered horse can only shake its head so many times before the flies begin to bite.”</p><p>“Better the horse that can take it than the dog that can’t.”</p><p>“Is that how you perceive it? A knowing sacrifice—your blood for another’s?”</p><p>Will shrugs. He looks down into his glass. After a moment, he knocks the rest of it back, then, without asking, rises from the bed to pour himself another helping.</p><p>Hannibal lets him. He is grateful he had the foresight to bring the whiskey; he’d intended for them to share it earlier, and perhaps to lower Will’s defenses. Alcohol and stress, in some cases, have been shown to cause or exacerbate sleepwalking, but he was lucky enough to be granted that gift without drawing a spark from the flint of Will’s brain.</p><p>“Dementia often presents alongside sleeping issues,” he needles, keeping his gaze locked on Will as he returns to the bed; Will, in return, decidedly avoids eye contact.</p><p>“As do numerous other conditions,” he shoots back, biting each word with careful articulation. As though the more vehemently he says it, the more valid it will become.</p><p>Hannibal allows a small measure of pity to suffuse his gaze. In truth, while he admires Will’s defiance, it will not serve to have him persist in this conviction. He needs Will to accept his fallacy and cease searching for physical ailments, especially now that he has lost his ally in Donald Sutcliffe. A loss that served him well, but a loss all the same.</p><p>“Many of them mental illness,” he says.</p><p>Will sets his whiskey down on the carpet and scrubs his hands again over his face, quick and hard. He leaves them there, fingertips pressing against the ridge of his browline as though he might impart some stability with a grounding touch. As though he might shield himself from the arrows of Hannibal’s insight.</p><p>“Will, please; you need to accept that you are not well.”</p><p>“I—” His voice cracks on the word—a sharp fissure he cannot manage to traverse. When he inhales, Hannibal hears the wet sound of tears clogging his throat. His breath shudders around the obstruction.</p><p>Hannibal sighs, not permitting any of his inner delight to show through the mask of his concern, and prowls across the room, perching beside Will. When he does so, his weight dips the thin mattress and sends Will leaning toward him like the weak stalk of a flower. Hannibal extends an arm, laying it across Will’s back, and his hand settles on the space between his neck and far shoulder. Will presses slightly against him, too weak and overcome to bother shifting away.</p><p>“It’s all right,” Hannibal soothes, fingers gripping gently. The blanket is thin and rough beneath his palm, and Will tenses momentarily before the line of his shoulders lowers, accepting Hannibal’s ministrations in conflicted defeat. “You aren’t facing this alone. Even the most unendurable burdens can be borne when one has a companion to help shoulder the weight.” He rubs lightly with his thumb and ducks his head in an attempt to meet his eyes. His own expression is earnest, kind. “Let me help you, Will.”</p><p>Will’s hands move to his thighs; he grinds his palms over them, dragging the fabric of his pajamas over taut muscle and gathering it in his fists. A last line of defense—physicality as an outlet of pressure, like poking a hole in a balloon full of water instead of allowing it to burst. Doubt and irritation and knowledge of his instability have heated to the point of boiling inside him, and the pressure they have caused is undeniable. He is on the brink of acquiescence; all Hannibal must do is push a little harder.</p><p>“Your boat has drifted into dangerous waters,” he continues, watching Will’s face. The subtleties of his distress are entrancing—the twist of his mouth, the tightening of his eyes, the trembling of his jaw. Hannibal thinks of martyrs immortalized in rich oil paints; Will could rival any of them for the beauty of his suffering. “There is no telling what lies beneath the surface. How many more scrapes can the hull of your mind endure before the damage becomes irreparable? I’ve no desire to see you sink below the tide.”</p><p>“It’s been… getting harder,” Will agrees quietly. His jaw works without sound. “To stay afloat.”</p><p>“Even the strongest of swimmers sometimes require a lifeline; the distinction lies in who is willing to ask for aid.” Hannibal’s fingers stir slowly, rubbing more decidedly at the muscle beneath his hand.</p><p>Will does not respond. Instead, he relaxes further into Hannibal’s touch, head bowing forward as though in prayer. At this angle, his unruly curls mask the bright sheen of his eyes—a veil of darkness and turmoil.</p><p>Hannibal has a fleeting desire to tangle his hands in them, to feel the coils of Will’s hair brush between his fingers.</p><p>Physical touch is a potent tool of manipulation. It is the first sense humans acquire; a fetus begins receiving tactile signals even before birth in the form of its mother’s heartbeat, amplified and made tangible by amniotic fluid. Touch signifies security—intimacy. It both fosters and enhances cooperation, often unconsciously. When wielded correctly, it can be one of the most powerful tools at man’s disposal.</p><p>Will is uncomfortable with it. He does not seek out physical contact with others, and thus each squeeze of his shoulder, each brush of their hands imparts that much more power. Resonates that much deeper. There is no tolerance to work around—in the feast of touch, Will is no courtier who cut his teeth on the kingdom’s finest offerings; he is a starving pauper who subsided on mealy bread and tough meats. The first burst of butter across his tongue is an epiphany. A revelation.</p><p>Silence descends between them, pensive and weary. Hannibal can still smell Will’s fevered discomfort, his dry exhaustion. The fine whiskey on his breath, which grows stronger with each open-mouthed exhalation, and the sweat that has ripened beneath the blanket.</p><p>He moves his hand to the back of Will’s neck, nudging the blanket down with practiced fingers to reveal the clammy tan spread of his skin. He lays his palm over it and kneads the muscle there, eliciting a small, almost pained sound.</p><p>Hannibal squeezes gently in wordless encouragement, seeking out the many knots that mar the landscape of his neck, like rocks buried across arable land. It is an intimate part of the body—a point of contact not often made by casual acquaintances, and, incidentally, a highly erogenous zone. Hannibal thinks of cats, of wolves carried by the scruff of their necks. Dogs trained to still when the skin there is tugged and manipulated just so. It is an area of possession—of control. He digs his fingers just under the place where Will’s neck meets his skull and thinks <em>I am marking my claim.</em></p><p>Minutes pass, with Will’s breath heavy and noticeable between them. Hannibal is not so arrogant as to believe this beast tamed, but Will is either too worn or too conflicted to reignite his earlier protestations, and he relishes even this momentary surrender—this uncharacteristic display of tolerance, this relinquishing of control.</p><p>A pleasant ache builds in the space connecting Hannibal’s thumb and forefinger. At his feet, Will’s whiskey lies untouched—forgotten. Like a wilting plant, he has started to lose his stiffness—to hang forward, exposing the line of his neck, his back. Sleep has begun to drape itself over him, too, muting the edges of his anxiety and turning him pliant and forgiving. Malleable beneath Hannibal’s skillful hands.</p><p>Another filament of pride weaves through him; it is unlike Will to so visibly lower his guard in another’s presence. He has grown comfortable with Hannibal these past months—has started to trust him. To rely on him, and to view him as a friend.</p><p>Discreetly, he sneaks glances beneath Will’s veil of curls. When he sees his eyelids beginning to droop, he slides his hand down, running over Will’s spine in a soothing caress before traveling back up to squeeze lightly at his shoulder.</p><p>“Come,” he says gently, encouraging him to sit up taller. “You should try to sleep.”</p><p>Will’s head swivels to the side, heavy with exhaustion, and he peers blearily up at Hannibal. After a long moment, he nods, and Hannibal helps pull him to his feet. They cross to the threshold silently, Hannibal’s hand lingering between his shoulder blades. When he opens the door, Will hesitates, turning back to face him with an expression that betrays his inner conflict.</p><p>“Thanks,” he says finally. He begins to shrug out of the blanket, but Hannibal stills his hands.</p><p>“Take it; I insist.” He pulls the blanket back up around Will’s shoulders and seeks his gaze with his own. Though Will declines to meet it, Hannibal ensures that sincerity is writ in every line upon his face. His hand lingers on Will’s bicep—a warm, comforting weight. “You’re welcome, Will. I only wish there was more I could do for you.” He squeezes gently in reassurance. “Should you need anything, you know where to find me. My door is always open, no matter the time.”</p><p>Will’s mouth twists into a pained, close-lipped smile. He nods, knuckles tightening on the blanket, and then nods again more decisively. Briefly, he lifts his gaze and makes eye contact—the connection spears Hannibal, as though he is Saint Teresa pierced by her angel’s golden lance. Will’s face is open, vulnerable. Grateful, even; he regards Hannibal like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm, standing tall and bright amongst the waves.</p><p>The moment is fleeting, though, and all too soon, Will drops his gaze and steps out into the cold.</p><p>When he has gone, Hannibal closes the door and pauses for a moment. Hand still on the doorknob, he stares at the chipped brown paint as though he can see through it. The night’s events soak into the permeable matter of his mind, to be absorbed into his mind palace and rendered in perfect replica.</p><p>There have been no great revelations tonight, and yet he feels accomplished. Pleased. Both Will’s physical and mental condition, as well as his dependence upon Hannibal, are progressing more splendidly than he could have imagined.</p><p>Pride and satisfaction are hot coals in his chest. As he turns briskly from the door and picks up their whiskey glasses, he allows a smile to blossom on his face.</p><p>It won’t be long now until Will’s chrysalis is fully formed. From there, it is only a matter of waiting. Of showing Will he is capable of breaking free and spreading his fragile, beautiful wings.</p><p>He swallows the rest of his whiskey and tips Will’s into the bathroom sink. Watches the amber liquid swirl down over the white porcelain.</p><p>Until then, Hannibal will be content to watch the slow unraveling of his glorious mind.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Huge thank-yous to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonkobarnes">bonkobarnes</a>, <a href="https://resolutedecay.tumblr.com/">resolutedecay</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amintadefender/pseuds/Amintadefender">Amintadefender</a>, and Andrew Rose for their invaluable support, encouragement, and beta work! Thanks too to the Darkest Night mods and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mgvr/pseuds/scarletsleeper">ScarletSleeper</a> for giving me the opportunity to write this! As soon as I saw mention of Will's illness and descent into insanity at Hannibal's hands in your request, I knew that's what I wanted to explore. Hope you like it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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